The month’s end was still far off; the apparition7 of her had shown itself to me, under some subtle prevision of trouble that was still in the future. Ample time was before me for the pilgrimage to which I was self-dedicated already — my pilgrimage to the shadow of Saint Paul’s. Other men, in my position, might have hesitated as to the right understanding of the place to which they were bidden. Other men might have wearied their memories by recalling the churches, the institutions, the streets, the towns in foreign countries, all consecrated8 to Christian9 reverence10 by the great apostle’s name, and might have fruitlessly asked themselves in which direction they were first to turn their steps. No such difficulty troubled me. My first conclusion was the one conclusion that was acceptable to my mind. “Saint Paul’s” meant the famous Cathedral of London. Where the shadow of the great church fell, there, at the month’s end, I should find her, or the trace of her. In London once more, and nowhere else, I was destined11 to see the woman I loved, in the living body, as certainly as I had just seen her in the ghostly presence.
Who could interpret the mysterious sympathies that still united us, in defiance12 of distance, in defiance of time? Who could predict to what end our lives were tending in the years that were to come?
Those questions were still present to my thoughts; my eyes were still fixed13 on the mysterious writing — when I became instinctively14 aware of the strange silence in the room. Instantly the lost remembrance of Miss Dunross came back to me. Stung by my own sense of self-reproach, I turned with a start, and looked toward her chair by the window.
The chair was empty. I was alone in the room.
Why had she left me secretly, without a word of farewell? Because she was suffering, in mind or body? Or because she resented, naturally resented, my neglect of her?
The bare suspicion that I had given her pain was intolerable to me. I rang my bell, to make inquiries15.
The bell was answered, not, as usual, by the silent servant Peter, but by a woman of middle age, very quietly and neatly16 dressed, whom I had once or twice met on the way to and from my room, and of whose exact position in the house I was still ignorant.
“Do you wish to see Peter?” she asked.
“No. I wish to know where Miss Dunross is.”
“Miss Dunross is in her room. She has sent me with this letter.”
I took the letter, feeling some surprise and uneasiness. It was the first time Miss Dunross had communicated with me in that formal way. I tried to gain further information by questioning her messenger.
“Are you Miss Dunross’s maid?” I asked.
“I have served Miss Dunross for many years,” was the answer, spoken very ungraciously.
“Do you think she would receive me if I sent you with a message to her?”
“I can’t say, sir. The letter may tell you. You will do well to read the letter.”
We looked at each other. The woman’s preconceived impression of me was evidently an unfavorable one. Had I indeed pained or offended Miss Dunross? And had the servant — perhaps the faithful servant who loved her — discovered and resented it? The woman frowned as she looked at me. It would be a mere17 waste of words to persist in questioning her. I let her go.
Left by myself again, I read the letter. It began, without any form of address, in these lines:
“I write, instead of speaking to you, because my self-control has already been severely18 tried, and I am not strong enough to bear more. For my father’s sake — not for my own — I must take all the care I can of the little health that I have left.
“Putting together what you have told me of the visionary creature whom you saw in the summer-house in Scotland, and what you said when you questioned me in your room a little while since, I cannot fail to infer that the same vision has shown itself to you, for the second time. The fear that I felt, the strange things that I saw (or thought I saw), may have been imperfect reflections in my mind of what was passing in yours. I do not stop to inquire whether we are both the victims of a delusion19, or whether we are the chosen recipients20 of a supernatural communication. The result, in either case, is enough for me. You are once more under the influence of Mrs. Van Brandt. I will not trust myself to tell you of the anxieties and forebodings by which I am oppressed: I will only acknowledge that my one hope for you is in your speedy reunion with the worthier21 object of your constancy and devotion. I still believe, and I am consoled in believing, that you and your first love will meet again.
“Having written so far, I leave the subject — not to return to it, except in my own thoughts.
“The necessary preparations for your departure to-morrow are all made. Nothing remains22 but to wish you a safe and pleasant journey home. Do not, I entreat23 you, think me insensible of what I owe to you, if I say my farewell words here.
“The little services which you have allowed me to render you have brightened the closing days of my life. You have left me a treasury24 of happy memories which I shall hoard25, when you are gone, with miserly care. Are you willing to add new claims to my grateful remembrance? I ask it of you, as a last favor — do not attempt to see me again! Do not expect me to take a personal leave of you! The saddest of all words is ‘Good-by’: I have fortitude26 enough to write it, and no more. God preserve and prosper27 you — farewell!
“One more request. I beg that you will not forget what you promised me, when I told you my foolish fancy about the green flag. Wherever you go, let Mary’s keepsake go with you. No written answer is necessary — I would rather not receive it. Look up, when you leave the house to-morrow, at the center window over the doorway28 — that will be answer enough.”
To say that these melancholy29 lines brought the tears into my eyes is only to acknowledge that I had sympathies which could be touched. When I had in some degree recovered my composure, the impulse which urged me to write to Miss Dunross was too strong to be resisted. I did not trouble her with a long letter; I only entreated30 her to reconsider her decision with all the art of persuasion31 which I could summon to help me. The answer was brought back by the servant who waited on Miss Dunross, in four resolute32 words: “It can not be.” This time the woman spoke6 out before she left me. “If you have any regard for my mistress,” she said sternly, “don’t make her write to you again.” She looked at me with a last lowering frown, and left the room.
It is needless to say that the faithful servant’s words only increased my anxiety to see Miss Dunross once more before we parted — perhaps forever. My one last hope of success in attaining33 this object lay in approaching her indirectly34 through the intercession of her father.
I sent Peter to inquire if I might be permitted to pay my respects to his master that evening. My messenger returned with an answer that was a new disappointment to me. Mr. Dunross begged that I would excuse him, if he deferred35 the proposed interview until the next morning. The next morning was the morning of my departure. Did the message mean that he had no wish to see me again until the time had come to take leave of him? I inquired of Peter whether his master was particularly occupied that evening. He was unable to tell me. “The Master of Books” was not in his study, as usual. When he sent his message to me, he was sitting by the sofa in his daughter’s room.
Having answered in those terms, the man left me by myself until the next morning. I do not wish my bitterest enemy a sadder time in his life than the time I passed during the last night of my residence under Mr. Dunross’s roof.
After walking to and fro in the room until I was weary, I thought of trying to divert my mind from the sad thoughts that oppressed it by reading. The one candle which I had lighted failed to sufficiently36 illuminate37 the room. Advancing to the mantel-piece to light the second candle which stood there, I noticed the unfinished letter to my mother lying where I had placed it, when Miss Dunross’s servant first presented herself before me. Having lighted the second candle, I took up the letter to put it away among my other papers. Doing this (while my thoughts were still dwelling38 on Miss Dunross), I mechanically looked at the letter again — and instantly discovered a change in it.
The written characters traced by the hand of the apparition had vanished! Below the last lines written by Miss Dunross nothing met my eyes now but the blank white paper!
My first impulse was to look at my watch.
When the ghostly presence had written in my sketch-book, the characters had disappeared after an interval39 of three hours. On this occasion, as nearly as I could calculate, the writing had vanished in one hour only.
Reverting40 to the conversation which I had held with Mrs. Van Brandt when we met at Saint Anthony’s Well, and to the discoveries which followed at a later period of my life, I can only repeat that she had again been the subject of a trance or dream, when the apparition of her showed itself to me for the second time. As before, she had freely trusted me and freely appealed to me to help her, in the dreaming state, when her spirit was free to recognize my spirit. When she had come to herself, after an interval of an hour, she had again felt ashamed of the familiar manner in which she had communicated with me in the trance — had again unconsciously counteracted41 by her waking-will the influence of her sleeping-will; and had thus caused the writing once more to disappear, in an hour from the moment when the pen had traced (or seemed to trace) it.
This is still the one explanation that I can offer. At the time when the incident happened, I was far from being fully42 admitted to the confidence of Mrs. Van Brandt; and I was necessarily incapable43 of arriving at any solution of the mystery, right or wrong. I could only put away the letter, doubting vaguely44 whether my own senses had not deceived me. After the distressing45 thoughts which Miss Dunross’s letter had roused in my mind, I was in no humor to employ my ingenuity46 in finding a clew to the mystery of the vanished writing. My nerves were irritated; I felt a sense of angry discontent with myself and with others. “Go where I may” (I thought impatiently), “the disturbing influence of women seems to be the only influence that I am fated to feel.” As I still paced backward and forward in my room — it was useless to think now of fixing my attention on a book — I fancied I understood the motives47 which made men as young as I was retire to end their lives in a monastery48. I drew aside the window curtains, and looked out. The only prospect49 that met my view was the black gulf50 of darkness in which the lake lay hidden. I could see nothing; I could do nothing; I could think of nothing. The one alternative before me was that of trying to sleep. My medical knowledge told me plainly that natural sleep was, in my nervous condition, one of the unattainable luxuries of life for that night. The medicine-chest which Mr. Dunross had placed at my disposal remained in the room. I mixed for myself a strong sleeping draught51, and sullenly52 took refuge from my troubles in bed.
It is a peculiarity53 of most of the soporific drugs that they not only act in a totally different manner on different constitutions, but that they are not even to be depended on to act always in the same manner on the same person. I had taken care to extinguish the candles before I got into my bed. Under ordinary circumstances, after I had lain quietly in the darkness for half an hour, the draught that I had taken would have sent me to sleep. In the present state of my nerves the draught stupefied me, and did no more.
Hour after hour I lay perfectly54 still, with my eyes closed, in the semi-sleeping, semi-wakeful state which is so curiously55 characteristic of the ordinary repose56 of a dog. As the night wore on, such a sense of heaviness oppressed my eyelids57 that it was literally58 impossible for me to open them — such a masterful languor59 possessed60 all my muscles that I could no more move on my pillow than if I had been a corpse61. And yet, in this somnolent62 condition, my mind was able to pursue lazy trains of pleasant thought. My sense of hearing was so acute that it caught the faintest sounds made by the passage of the night-breeze through the rushes of the lake. Inside my bed-chamber, I was even more keenly sensible of those weird63 night-noises in the heavy furniture of a room, of those sudden settlements of extinct coals in the grate, so familiar to bad sleepers64, so startling to overwrought nerves! It is not a scientifically correct statement, but it exactly describes my condition, that night, to say that one half of me was asleep and the other half awake.
How many hours of the night had passed, when my irritable65 sense of hearing became aware of a new sound in the room, I cannot tell. I can only relate that I found myself on a sudden listening intently, with fast-closed eyes. The sound that disturbed me was the faintest sound imaginable, as of something soft and light traveling slowly over the surface of the carpet, and brushing it just loud enough to be heard.
Little by little, the sound came nearer and nearer to my bed — and then suddenly stopped just as I fancied it was close by me.
I still lay immovable, with closed eyes; drowsily66 waiting for the next sound that might reach my ears; drowsily content with the silence, if the silence continued. My thoughts (if thoughts they could be called) were drifting back again into their former course, when I became suddenly conscious of soft breathing just above me. The next moment I felt a touch on my forehead — light, soft, tremulous, like the touch of lips that had kissed me. There was a momentary67 pause. Then a low sigh trembled through the silence. Then I heard again the still, small sound of something brushing its way over the carpet; traveling this time from my bed, and moving so rapidly that in a moment more it was lost in the silence of the night.
Still stupefied by the drug that I had taken, I could lazily wonder what had happened, and I could do no more. Had living lips really touched me? Was the sound that I had heard really the sound of a sigh? Or was it all delusion, beginning and ending in a dream? The time passed without my deciding, or caring to decide, those questions. Minute by minute, the composing influence of the draught began at last to strengthen its hold on my brain. A cloud seemed to pass softly over my last waking impressions. One after another, the ties broke gently that held me to conscious life. I drifted peacefully into perfect sleep.
Shortly after sunrise, I awoke. When I regained68 the use of my memory, my first clear recollection was the recollection of the soft breathing which I had felt above me — then of the touch on my forehead, and of the sigh which I had heard after it. Was it possible that some one had entered my room in the night? It was quite possible. I had not locked the door — I had never been in the habit of locking the door during my residence under Mr. Dunross’s roof.
After thinking it over a little, I rose to examine my room.
Nothing in the shape of a discovery rewarded me, until I reached the door. Though I had not locked it overnight, I had certainly satisfied myself that it was closed before I went to bed. It was now ajar. Had it opened again, through being imperfectly shut? or had a person, after entering and leaving my room, forgotten to close it?
Accidentally looking downward while I was weighing these probabilities, I noticed a small black object on the carpet, lying just under the key, on the inner side of the door. I picked the thing up, and found that it was a torn morsel69 of black lace.
The instant I saw the fragment, I was reminded of the long black veil, hanging below her waist, which it was the habit of Miss Dunross to wear. Was it her dress, then, that I had heard softly traveling over the carpet; her kiss that had touched my forehead; her sigh that had trembled through the silence? Had the ill-fated and noble creature taken her last leave of me in the dead of night, trusting the preservation70 of her secret to the deceitful appearances which persuaded her that I was asleep? I looked again at the fragment of black lace. Her long veil might easily have been caught, and torn, by the projecting key, as she passed rapidly through the door on her way out of my room. Sadly and reverently71 I laid the morsel of lace among the treasured memorials which I had brought with me from home. To the end of her life, I vowed72 it, she should be left undisturbed in the belief that her secret was safe in her own breast! Ardently73 as I still longed to take her hand at parting, I now resolved to make no further effort to see her. I might not be master of my own emotions; something in my face or in my manner might betray me to her quick and delicate perception. Knowing what I now knew, the last sacrifice I could make to her would be to obey her wishes. I made the sacrifice.
In an hour more Peter informed me that the ponies74 were at the door, and that the Master was waiting for me in the outer hall.
I noticed that Mr. Dunross gave me his hand, without looking at me. His faded blue eyes, during the few minutes while we were together, were not once raised from the ground.
“God speed you on your journey, sir, and guide you safely home,” he said. “I beg you to forgive me if I fail to accompany you on the first few miles of your journey. There are reasons which oblige me to remain with my daughter in the house.”
He was scrupulously75, almost painfully, courteous76; but there was something in his manner which, for the first time in my experience, seemed designedly to keep me at a distance from him. Knowing the intimate sympathy, the perfect confidence, which existed between the father and daughter, a doubt crossed my mind whether the secret of the past night was entirely77 a secret to Mr. Dunross. His next words set that doubt at rest, and showed me the truth.
In thanking him for his good wishes, I attempted also to express to him (and through him to Miss Dunross) my sincere sense of gratitude78 for the kindness which I had received under his roof. He stopped me, politely and resolutely79, speaking with that quaintly80 precise choice of language which I h ad remarked as characteristic of him at our first interview.
“It is in your power, sir,” he said, “to return any obligation which you may think you have incurred81 on leaving my house. If you will be pleased to consider your residence here as an unimportant episode in your life, which ends —absolutely ends — with your departure, you will more than repay any kindness that you may have received as my guest. In saying this, I speak under a sense of duty which does entire justice to you as a gentleman and a man of honor. In return, I can only trust to you not to misjudge my motives, if I abstain82 from explaining myself any further.”
A faint color flushed his pale cheeks. He waited, with a certain proud resignation, for my reply. I respected her secret, respected it more resolutely than ever, before her father.
“After all that I owe to you, sir,” I answered, “your wishes are my commands.” Saying that, and saying no more, I bowed to him with marked respect, and left the house.
Mounting my pony83 at the door, I looked up at the center window, as she had bidden me. It was open; but dark curtains, jealously closed, kept out the light from the room within. At the sound of the pony’s hoofs84 on the rough island road, as the animal moved, the curtains were parted for a few inches only. Through the gap in the dark draperies a wan85 white hand appeared; waved tremulously a last farewell; and vanished from my view. The curtains closed again on her dark and solitary86 life. The dreary87 wind sounded its long, low dirge88 over the rippling89 waters of the lake. The ponies took their places in the ferryboat which was kept for the passage of animals to and from the island. With slow, regular strokes the men rowed us to the mainland and took their leave. I looked back at the distant house. I thought of her in the dark room, waiting patiently for death. Burning tears blinded me. The guide took my bridle90 in his hand: “You’re not well, sir,” he said; “I will lead the pony.”
When I looked again at the landscape round me, we had descended91 in the interval from the higher ground to the lower. The house and the lake had disappeared, to be seen no more.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
mortified
|
|
| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
awe
|
|
| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
rapture
|
|
| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
beholding
|
|
| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
apparition
|
|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
consecrated
|
|
| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
destined
|
|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
instinctively
|
|
| adv.本能地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
neatly
|
|
| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
severely
|
|
| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
delusion
|
|
| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
recipients
|
|
| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
worthier
|
|
| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
entreat
|
|
| v.恳求，恳请 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
treasury
|
|
| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
hoard
|
|
| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
fortitude
|
|
| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
prosper
|
|
| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
entreated
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
persuasion
|
|
| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
resolute
|
|
| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
attaining
|
|
| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
indirectly
|
|
| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
deferred
|
|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
illuminate
|
|
| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
reverting
|
|
| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
counteracted
|
|
| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
distressing
|
|
| a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
ingenuity
|
|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
motives
|
|
| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
monastery
|
|
| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
gulf
|
|
| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
draught
|
|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
sullenly
|
|
| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
peculiarity
|
|
| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
repose
|
|
| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
eyelids
|
|
| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
languor
|
|
| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
corpse
|
|
| n.尸体，死尸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
somnolent
|
|
| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
weird
|
|
| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
sleepers
|
|
| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
irritable
|
|
| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
drowsily
|
|
| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
regained
|
|
| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
morsel
|
|
| n.一口，一点点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
preservation
|
|
| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
reverently
|
|
| adv.虔诚地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
vowed
|
|
| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
ardently
|
|
| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
ponies
|
|
| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
scrupulously
|
|
| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
courteous
|
|
| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
resolutely
|
|
| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
quaintly
|
|
| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
incurred
|
|
| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
abstain
|
|
| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
hoofs
|
|
| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
wan
|
|
| (wide area network)广域网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
dirge
|
|
| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
rippling
|
|
| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
bridle
|
|
| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |